


All Come Together

by thursjournal



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Post Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursjournal/pseuds/thursjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One last time, John. Keep your eyes fixed on me.”</p>
<p>Set after His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Come Together

**Author's Note:**

> Short thing that's been rolling around in my brain. Song lyrics from High On a Hill by Kate Rusby, which inspired this fic. Un-betaed so read at your own risk.

_High on a hill,_  
 _There's a sweet bird calling,_  
 _All come together,_  
 _Are you in or are you out,_  
 _He sings of a time,_  
 _When the sky was falling,_  
 _All come together,_  
 _And be in no doubt._  
  
 _Oh darling let's go over,_  
 _Now the devil's here,_  
 _Oh darling let's go over,_  
 _Now the devil's here,_  
 _Oh darling, oh my darling,_  
 _Be strong and be proud,_  
 _Oh darling then you'll see,_  
 _The devil will go round_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stood on the ledge, wind whipping his coat. He looked down at John, standing in miniature on the street below. The muffled sounds of the city drifted up around him.   
“No, stay exactly where you are,” Sherlock commanded, his voice shaking slightly.

He stretched out his hand towards John, who reached up to him. A memory echoed through his mind. He forced out words that usually came easily, spun gold threaded through the eye of a needle, sewing up his perfect story. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“One last time, John. Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

“All right.”

The answer was steadfast. Sherlock could imagine John’s small tight nod of agreement Always the soldier.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, forcing the tear to divert its course. “Good to know you can still follow orders.”

“I don’t have a commanding officer,” John reiterated, picking up the thread of conversation they had set down many months ago.

An exasperated sigh filled everyone’s earpieces, “If you two could kindly stick to the script,” Mycroft managed to sound both politely innocuous and mildly threatening, “as this is a matter of national importance.”

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged glances over the blue expanse of the inflatable mat, and then returned to waiting for their cue while the dialogue continued.

“It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”

Anderson propped his foot on the raised bike pedal, ready to shift his weight. On the other side of the brick building, Lestrade, Donovan and the rest of the crew hustled the inflatable mat to the sidewalk.

“Goodbye, John.” This time Sherlock held the phone to his ear long enough to hear John’s plea.

“No. Don’t”

Sherlock shifted his weight and launched from the ledge, twisting his body. His arms scrambled uselessly to find purchase as air whistled by his ears. He braced, waiting for the impact that once again seemed to arrive both too early and too late, forcing the air from his lungs in an aching rush. He rolled from the mat, gasping for breath while his feet propelled him to the mark. He could feel the post-adrenaline crash as he sank down to the sidewalk. Perhaps he could lay here forever. Maybe they would let him decompose. There weren’t nearly enough references for long term decomposition in an urban environment.

John’s voice cut short his morbid reverie, “Let me through.”

Sherlock turned his head on the cold pavement. John pushed through the crowd, his face like stone and a raging storm. Sherlock stretched out his hand towards John, who reached down and caught Sherlock’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. A memory echoed between them. Sherlock drew in a painful breath, “Well at least one of us knows how to follow orders.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the morgue table buttoning up a fresh shirt. Molly stood across the room, talking in a low voice with one of the agents. Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were leaning over a building schematic, frowning as they ran through all the possible exits again. John stood off to the side, still except for the occasional flexing of his left hand. He turned towards Sherlock with a questioning shrug. Sherlock pushed himself off the table and made his way around the equipment. He stood with John observing the bustle that filled the usually quiet room.

“Well, have they found anything?” John asked.

“No. Mycroft wouldn’t still be here if there were any interesting developments.” Sherlock took in John’s profile. He furrowed his brow and frowned slightly, then lifted his head. “John, I...should say…”

John turned towards Sherlock. “I hope I didn’t reschedule all my appointments at the clinic just to give your brother a bit of dinner theatre.”

“Acting is on par with Les Mis, but overall improved by the lack of singing,” Mycroft said smoothly as he looked up.

“What have you learned?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“Our objective to identify the method Moriarty employed to survived your encounter has thus far proved …. unsuccessful.”

“And the other?” Sherlock pushed

“What other?” John looked quizzically between the brothers.

“Mycroft never has only one objective for a mission, and he certainly wouldn’t lower himself to observing field work for anything as trivial as Moriarty’s escape routes. You think he’s here, watching? You let word of your little show leak, hoping he would find it irresistible.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Our analysts believe a person of Moriarty’s psychological profile would be highly motivated to observe a reenactment of his work undertaken by the agency in an attempt to ascertain his methodology.”

John huffed, “So you think he likes to watch?”

Mycroft’s face took on an even more sour expression. “If you’ll excuse me, I have further debriefings to review.”

John looked at Sherlock, his smirk fading. “You’re not thinking of doing something idiotic, now that he’s back?”

“Well I did just jump off of a building,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m serious.”

Sherlock met John’s eyes, and nodded.

 

* * *

 

“Time to do some recruiting,” Moriarty said with a gleeful lilt. “I’ve sent you a very promising resume.”

Moran picked up his phone, swiping through the classified documents, ending on a photograph. The woman stood in black ops gear, a knit cap all but covering her short blonde hair.

“Please contact Mrs. Morstan-Watson and tell her I’d like to arrange an interview.”


End file.
